The Gracekeepers (22 page)

“Little fish, you crack me up! No one's asking you to be the Holy Virgin. Here, this is what I meant.”

He pulled the blanket off her head and wrapped it around her chest, folding and knotting the corners at her shoulders. It hung down to her ankles, covering her body in a mass of fabric.

“There,” he said. “You look terrible. The revivalists will love
it. Now let's go and find this man before they decide we're too grubby and throw us off the stern.”

T
he more Flitch saw of the revival ship, the harder it was to appear nonchalant in front of Callanish. The ship was so huge that he was sure the sun had crossed the sky by the time they found deck three. It was impossible to know for sure, though, as the gangways were windowless. After years spent almost entirely on his cutter, Flitch got anxious when he could not see the sky.

From the outside, the door to cabin nine looked like all the others: shiny metal paneling, with a shiny metal number bolted above the shiny metal handle. All metal was salvaged, but this looked brand new. Or at least, how Flitch imagined it would look brand new. It must have been hammered and sandpapered and polished and polished and polished. After wandering down dozens of scrubbed-shining gangways, Flitch's eyes ached. On every gangway they'd had to step over at least one revivalist with a cloth and bucket, scrubbing at the already spotless walls. Flitch knocked on the door to cabin nine and waited to be summoned.

“Yes.” It was not a question, but still Flitch answered by turning the handle and holding the door open for Callanish. He thought that the crew manager, being a revivalist, would identify with a bit of old-style chivalry.

He didn't know what he'd expected of the crew manager, but it was not what he got: a pale-lipped woman with black hair in thick spiral curls. She wore the blue of all revivalists, but instead of robes she had on a modest knee-length dress.

The room was all bone white and shiny silver, as thoroughly scrubbed as the rest of the ship. A deep shelf ran at head height all around the edge of the room, with objects placed on it at regular intervals. Flitch tried to take it all in at once: the gleaming gold orbs, the tiny glass vials, the stacks of silver coins, the candlesticks studded with red and purple gems. He reminded himself to breathe.

“You must be new,” said the woman. “Welcome home.”

Flitch couldn't see Callanish's face, but her body language was enough. She was terrified, humbled, excited. He'd forgotten how small her world was. Had she even met a revivalist before? Did she understand what the woman meant by the welcome?

“Thank you,” he said, silently willing Callanish to trust him. “We appreciate your kindness.”

The woman nodded, motioning Flitch and Callanish on to the bench in front of her desk. A glint amid her hair: jewels, set in shiny metal, dangled from her earlobes. Up until that moment, Flitch had forgotten how it felt to covet. He blinked the gleam out of his eyes.

“I regret that we cannot remain as permanent members,” he said. “But we have heard much about your generosity and were hopeful that you could help us. We wish to get to the North-West 22 archipelago.”

The woman raised her eyebrows and opened a drawer in her desk. Flitch stretched his spine, peering over the far lip of the desk. She spotted the movement and stopped him with a frown, but not before he'd seen that she was consulting a map. He sat back and smiled at her in a manner both humble and charming.

Flitch knew that if he could get under her desk and under her dress, he could get under her skin—and then she would do
whatever he asked. It was the best way to get what you wanted from a woman. Not so easy with Callanish shadowing his every move, though. Still, his manners were pretty enough to get him through. And a bit of flirting never hurt.

“Some nice shiny stuff you've got here,” he said. “If you weren't all such good people, I'd suspect it was stolen.” He held back a wink, but allowed her a cheeky grin.

“We do not steal. We liberate.”

“If these are holy objects, shouldn't they be in a holy place? A sacred copse, but—well, on a boat?” asked Callanish. Flitch cursed himself for not telling her to stay quiet.

The crew manager looked up from her map and regarded them with an expression of long-suffering patience. “Everywhere on the revival ship is a holy place. Everywhere must be fit for worship and everything must be sacred.”

Flitch resisted the urge to ask whether the revivalists' shit was sacred too.

“Of course,” he soothed. “That makes perfect sense. And if I were in your position, I'm sure—”

The woman slammed her drawer shut. “You are not in my position, and you never will be. I am not asking why a messenger is traveling with a landlocker. I am not asking why she is not on her home island. I am not asking about the nature of this…relationship. You may thank God's grace for that. We are traveling toward the North-West archipelago. You may stay on board until then.”

Flitch forced out a smile. He wasn't sure what she would want in return for letting them tag along. Sex? Money? Faith? Flitch was pretty good with the first, but he'd long run out of the other two. Still, he would try to make her believe that he could believe.

“Thank you,” he said. “We had heard of your generosity, but the glory you have shown is—”

“You are here to be saved, and salvation comes from work. Go to the next gangway. You will be issued with cleaning materials. You will have noticed as you came aboard what happens to dirt on this ship. Mind you keep clean.”

“Right,” said Flitch. “Thank you. Shall we just…?”

But she had already dismissed them.

 

T
hat night, the revivalists put on a show. Callanish accepted Flitch's offer to sit with him in the dampling section and watch, but now that the show was starting she found it hard to make her eyes focus. Still, it was a distraction. She'd scrub, she'd gut fish, she'd watch a revival show: anything to make the days go by faster, so she would be at her island quickly. And, at the same time, she'd do anything to make the days feel dull and endless, so that she would never arrive at her island.

WELCOME, WELCOME, TO EACH AND EVERY ONE OF GODS CHILDREN
, boomed the preacher from the stage, his voice caramel-rich and too heavy to echo, filling the enormous space at the heart of the revival ship. Earlier that day they'd used this as a dining room, but now the tables and chairs had been cleared to leave an empty deck that was quickly filled with revivalists, damplings who'd docked nearby, and the brave landlockers who
dared to cross the blackshore. To one side stretched a stage, dominated by a huge banner of the blue-robed Virgin.

At first the sheer number of people in the room had panicked Callanish; it was more people than she'd seen in one place in her entire life. She tried to count, but lost track in the triple figures. Flitch was restless beside her, and the room was warm with mingled breath.

THIS EVENING WE WILL SHOW YOU GOD
'
S LOVE
, continued the preacher, his voice intimate now,
AND WE WILL TEACH YOU, AS WE HOPE YOU WILL TEACH
us, and whatever that was supposed to mean, Callanish didn't know. The preacher was dressed in the same blue as all the revivalists, but the fabric of his suit seemed richer and denser than the usual rough cotton—and was that a fresh flower in his buttonhole? No, it couldn't be. Callanish scrunched up her eyes to see better. She had not seen a fresh flower since she left her island. Except, now that she thought about it, hadn't she seen one…where? In someone's hair, thick and treacle-dark hair, and there was some bad feeling attached to that—the memory loomed up, the pregnant woman from the circus, with her imperious face and scent of pollen, but even as the memory solidified it began to fade away again to be replaced with something else, something good. The bear. The bear-girl. The beat of a heart.

AND SO OUR TALE BEGINS
, said the preacher, his voice returned to its boom,
WITH THE SORRIEST OF GOD
'
S CHILDREN IN THE SORRIEST OF SITUATIONS, AND PERHAPS
—his voice dropped again, bedroom-soft—
PERHAPS YOU WILL SEE A LITTLE OF YOURSELF IN THE STORY
.

Lost in thought, Callanish had missed the setup, but she soon found her place: the preacher was bemoaning the fate of the forsaken sinner, who was represented by a woman in glittery
scraps and painted red lips, balanced on a perch so high she could almost touch the ceiling.

OBSERVE THE FRAGILITY OF THE SINNER
'
S FOUNDATIONS
, said the preacher with a dramatic gesture at the sinner's perch,
FOR WITHOUT GOD
'
S LOVE SHE IS UNSTEADY WHEREVER SHE STANDS
.

Throughout these proclamations the preacher was pacing the stage, raising his hands skyward, and
ALAS!
he proclaimed,
PITY THE POOR SINNER
, and to Callanish's surprise the crowd all bewailed “Alas!” and—most surprising of all—Flitch joined in with them. She turned, eyebrows raised, to find him winking back at her while crowing “Alas! Oh, alas!” and shaking his fists gleefully at the ceiling. Callanish suppressed a smile, not wanting the crowd to think she was mocking them.

When the crowd had reached sufficient volume, all the lights fell to black, leaving only a spotlight trained on the preacher. He pointed his finger and swept it around the room, his voice booming over the crowd's wailing,
YOU WILL SEE, MY CHILDREN, THAT A BEDROCK OF SIN IS NO BEDROCK AT ALL
.

On his last word the spotlight swooped up to the forsaken sinner, in time to show the crowd how she twisted, turned, and slipped off her perch—dropped down, down, down—and as the crowd readied themselves for the crack of bone, the bright reveal of blood, the sinner straightened her arms, letting the ropes looped around her wrists catch her and she jolted to a halt—her muscles juddering, her body suspended at head height above the hard wooden stage.

THIS IS GOD
'
S LOVE
, announced the preacher, his tones honeyed once more,
FOR GOD
'
S LOVE WILL ALWAYS CATCH
us
BEFORE WE FALL
. The sinner—now presumably saved—unlooped her arms from the rope and landed neatly before the preacher.

BUT WE MUST ALWAYS
, continued the preacher, and Callanish
wasn't listening because there was something familiar about that sinner. She leaned across Flitch the better to see the stage, but she must have been blocking his view for he pushed her back. She turned, frowning, trying to explain, and he must not have been able to hear her now that the preacher was rhapsodizing
WE MUST ALWAYS HOLD ON TO OUR FAITH AS WE WOULD HOLD ON TO A ROPE
, and Callanish was trying to tell Flitch that she knew the sinner, she knew her from somewhere but she didn't know where. He wasn't listening, too distracted by the now-saved sinner who, despite having oddly large arms and shoulders for a woman, was still dressed in a sinner's glittery scraps, which Flitch would surely think was more important than anything Callanish had to say.

BUT WE MUST NEVER
—and here the preacher's voice took on a forbidding edge—
WE MUST NEVER CLING TO UNHOLY THINGS
, and he took hold of the sinner's dress and, in one swift movement, tore it off.

The crowd gasped, shrieked, couldn't decide whether to cover their eyes or lean forward for a better view. But underneath the glittery scraps the sinner was clothed in a flesh-colored bodysuit, and it seemed to Callanish that she might as well be naked, except that technically no skin was on show, and she had an enormous flaming heart painted on her chest, from her collarbone right down to her breasts. Callanish wasn't sure what the heart meant, but the crowd seemed to know, as they all leapt to their feet and clapped and cheered. The sinner swooned into the preacher's arms, making the tears painted on her cheeks sparkle.

As he held her, the preacher was saying
THE KNOTS OF OUR LOVE FOR GOD WILL HOLD FAST THROUGH ANY STORM
, and Callanish shouted into Flitch's ear: “I know her.”

“Who?” he mouthed back.

“The sinner. But she's not a sinner, she's an acrobat in a circus.”

She could hardly hear herself over the burr of the preacher and the praise-shrieking of the crowd, but Flitch must have heard. He tipped back his head and laughed right up at the ceiling.

“Clever, clever, little fish!” He leaned in close and shouted into Callanish's ear, intimate despite the crowd. “But don't let the revivalists hear you call it a circus. They won't take kindly to that.”

Callanish shook her head, mouthing, “No, I didn't mean—” It didn't matter. The show had reached its climax and the crowd had rushed the stage, frantic to touch the saved sinner, to be blessed by the preacher. Callanish hunched over in her seat, trying not to let any of the passing limbs hit her.

For the revivalists, the show had been a success. By the next morning, their crew would be even larger—but soon Callanish would not be a part of it.

C
allanish spent the rest of her time on the revival boat—fifty-nine window-washings, twenty-one deck-scrubbings, ninety-two sheet-rinsings—trying to be alone with the acrobat. At first she'd hoped that the acrobat's presence meant that the whole circus was on board, but she soon realized that was impossible. If the revivalists had a bear, the revival show would have a bear.

Her task was not easy. Even at night Callanish was surrounded by revivalists; as she and Flitch weren't married, the crew manager had forbidden them to share a cabin, eliciting a barely suppressed snigger from Flitch and a not-at-all-suppressed grimace from Callanish. Instead she was assigned to a narrow bunk among many rows of identical bunks, each occupied by a blue-robed
revivalist, their eyes glassy with bliss and their conversation breathy and excited. This suited Callanish, as she was not interested in eye contact or deep discussion.

She attended the revival show each night, but watching the acrobat tumble and swoon did not bring them any closer. During the day, she'd catch glimpses of her reflected in the passageways' polished floors as she trailed after the preacher, but Callanish clung to her mop and stayed silent. The acrobat had clearly confessed her past on the circus boat, or the preacher would not have known to cast her as the tumbling sinner—but still, Callanish did not want to mention it in front of anyone else. She dug through her memory, trying to retrieve the acrobat's name, but North and the bear loomed so large in her mind that they blotted out all the other circus folk.

With each passing day, the air grew colder and the sky paler. The boat was edging further north, and Callanish knew they would soon arrive at her home archipelago. She needed to ask the acrobat about the bear-girl before that happened. Rather than wait for an opportunity that might never come, she resolved to make one.

The next night, she slipped into the revival show as late as she dared, to get the perfect seat: at the back, on the edge. She moved slowly and kept her head bowed so that her neighbor wouldn't notice her. She waited until the crowd's wails of
ALAS
for the poor sinner reached a crescendo, and she slipped away—not through the door she'd entered by, but through the back. This passageway was windowless and gleaming like all the others, though Callanish was sure it was not one she'd polished.

She waited.

She heard the shrieks, the wails of joy, the staggered silences that meant the acrobat's fall, her unrobing, her swoon.

Still she waited.

The door opened, making the last of the applause blare into the passageway, and the acrobat appeared.

“Hello, my sister,” she said.

“Hello—sister.” Callanish's tongue tripped over the word. The acrobat smiled and turned to walk away. “Wait. Please. I want to ask you—to tell you—I know you.”

“That is good, my sister. We are all friends here.” The acrobat rested a hand on Callanish's wrist—to soothe, Callanish thought, but then realized it was in defense—she had grabbed the acrobat's muscled shoulder. She eased her grip.

“I mean I know you, the real you. Not this you.”

The acrobat frowned.

“Sorry,” mumbled Callanish. “I—sorry. I'm not making sense. Do you recognize me? We've met before. You visited me to—you came after your…I'm a gracekeeper. You were at my graceyard. Do you remember?”

A flicker passed over the acrobat's face—pain, panic—though it was quickly smoothed out. “It does not matter what came before,” she said. “It only matters that we repent and live our lives cleanly and correctly. That is the only way that we will reach heaven, where our loved ones await.”

The acrobat peeled Callanish's hand off her shoulder—a little harder than necessary, Callanish thought, though to be fair she was probably coming across like a madwoman—and turned to go.

“I won't ask anything else of you,” Callanish said. “I'm leaving the ship soon and I may never see you again, so I have to ask now. I need to know how to find the circus. I mean, I might want—I might need to find it again. Do you know where the circus is now?”

The acrobat tightened her jaw. “Once the devil has touched
you, you'll always carry the scar. You can never get rid of him, not completely. He'll take everything from you.”

“So you know how I can find them?” asked Callanish.

“Sister, trust me when I say that you don't want them. That circus, it's cursed. You can't make that many sparks and not expect one of them to catch. That whole sinning lot is going to burn, you'll see.”

Callanish forced her face into a smile. “I'll stay safe. My business with the circus is minor. I will return to the revival ship afterward, of course, to do my true duty. And I may not need the circus at all. But first I must cleanse myself. There are threads in my life as yet untied, and I must atone.”

The acrobat's expression softened. “I understand. I know all about purgatory. And we all have to cleanse ourselves.”

The noise behind the door had lessened; soon the preacher would extricate himself from his ecstatic children and sweep the acrobat under his arm once more. It was a risk, but Callanish took it: she grasped the acrobat's hands in her own and squeezed. Tears prickled, and that was one thing she did not have to fake.

“Please,” she said. “You're the only one who can help me.”

After a moment, the acrobat squeezed back. “I'd say you're in luck, sister, but there's no luck to be had at that circus. They've been behind us this whole time, lurking on the horizon. I fear they want to steal me back. They have not taken enough from me, and now they want the rest.”

Callanish thought it more likely that the ships were simply following the same sailing route, but she didn't point that out. “The same way the revivalists stole you?” she asked.

“They did not steal me, sister. They saved me. But I am not afraid, for the circus sinners will not come close enough for thieving. They are kept at bay by the glory and power of Our Lady.”

Callanish thought it more likely that the circus folk wanted to avoid performing on the same island on the same night as the revivalists, but she didn't point that out either. “So tomorrow,” she said, “when we go ashore at North-West 22, if I wait there then they'll come, and—”

“But we won't go ashore there.”